Test Bank for Fundamentals of Advanced Accounting 6th

Edition by Hoyle Schaefer and Doupnik ISBN 0077862236

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Chapter 02

Consolidation of Financial Information

Multiple Choice Questions

1. At the date of an acquisition which is not a bargain purchase, the acquisition method

A. consolidates the subsidiary's assets at fair value and the liabilities at book value.
B. consolidates all subsidiary assets and liabilities at book value.
C. consolidates all subsidiary assets and liabilities at fair value.
D. consolidates current assets and liabilities at book value, long-term assets and liabilities at fair
value.
E. consolidates the subsidiary's assets at book value and the liabilities at fair value.

2. In an acquisition where control is achieved, how would the land accounts of the parent and the
land accounts of the subsidiary be combined?

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 A. Option A
B. Option B
C. Option C
D. Option D
E. Option E

2-2
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McGraw-Hill Education.
3. Lisa Co. paid cash for all of the voting common stock of Victoria Corp. Victoria will continue to
exist as a separate corporation. Entries for the consolidation of Lisa and Victoria would be
recorded in

A. a worksheet.
B. Lisa's general journal.
C. Victoria's general journal.
D. Victoria's secret consolidation journal.
E. the general journals of both companies.

4. Using the acquisition method for a business combination, goodwill is generally defined as:

A. Cost of the investment less the subsidiary's book value at the beginning of the year.
B. Cost of the investment less the subsidiary's book value at the acquisition date.
C. Cost of the investment less the subsidiary's fair value at the beginning of the year.
D. Cost of the investment less the subsidiary's fair value at acquisition date.
E. is no longer allowed under federal law.

5. Direct combination costs and stock issuance costs are often incurred in the process of making a
controlling investment in another company. How should those costs be accounted for in a pre-
2009 purchase transaction?

A. Option A
B. Option B
C. Option C
D. Option D
E. Option E

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McGraw-Hill Education.
 6. How are direct and indirect costs accounted for when applying the acquisition method for a
business combination?

A. Option A
B. Option B
C. Option C
D. Option D
E. Option E

7. What is the primary accounting difference between accounting for when the subsidiary is dissolved
and when the subsidiary retains its incorporation?

A. If the subsidiary is dissolved, it will not be operated as a separate division.

B. If the subsidiary is dissolved, assets and liabilities are consolidated at their book values.
C. If the subsidiary retains its incorporation, there will be no goodwill associated with the
acquisition.
D. If the subsidiary retains its incorporation, assets and liabilities are consolidated at their book
values.
E. If the subsidiary retains its incorporation, the consolidation is not formally recorded in the
accounting records of the acquiring company.

8. According to GAAP, the pooling of interest method for business combinations

A. Is preferred to the purchase method.

B. Is allowed for all new acquisitions.
C. Is no longer allowed for business combinations after June 30, 2001.
D. Is no longer allowed for business combinations after December 31, 2001.
E. Is only allowed for large corporate mergers like Exxon and Mobil.

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McGraw-Hill Education.
9. An example of a difference in types of business combination is:

A. A statutory merger can only be effected by an asset acquisition while a statutory consolidation
can only be effected by a capital stock acquisition.
B. A statutory merger can only be effected by a capital stock acquisition while a statutory
consolidation can only be effected by an asset acquisition.
C. A statutory merger requires dissolution of the acquired company while a statutory consolidation
does not require dissolution.
D. A statutory consolidation requires dissolution of the acquired company while a statutory merger
does not require dissolution.
E. Both a statutory merger and a statutory consolidation can only be effected by an asset
acquisition but only a statutory consolidation requires dissolution of the acquired company.

10. Acquired in-process research and development is considered as

A. a definite-lived asset subject to amortization.

B. a definite-lived asset subject to testing for impairment.
C. an indefinite-lived asset subject to amortization.
D. an indefinite-lived asset subject to testing for impairment.
E. a research and development expense at the date of acquisition.

11. Which one of the following is a characteristic of a business combination accounted for as an
acquisition?

A. The combination must involve the exchange of equity securities only.

B. The transaction establishes an acquisition fair value basis for the company being acquired.
C. The two companies may be about the same size, and it is difficult to determine the acquired
company and the acquiring company.
D. The transaction may be considered to be the uniting of the ownership interests of the
companies involved.
E. The acquired subsidiary must be smaller in size than the acquiring parent.

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On they went, keeping ahead of the band, which was obliged to slacken
its pace a little, but it did so accommodatingly.
I stood near an old man watching the procession. Alongside us were
three middle-aged women who smiled as it passed; but I saw tears on the
cheeks of one woman while she smiled.
The old man told me that this was the procession of the young men who
had just received their call to the colors. Tomorrow they would leave. On
my way back to Fosse-dix I was wondering why it was that a lame man
carried the flag; then suddenly it came to me that on account of his
lameness he could not go to the war, and that very likely for this reason
each class, when called, showed him the courtesy of appointing him to
lead the procession.
 Chapter L
B L M
The following week the Thirteenth and Fourteenth moved up to the front
line from reserve and we went to Mazingarbe, only about four miles
distant from Fosse-dix. Here, again, I was billeted with a curé; a
comparatively young man, who was very distant in manner, though most
kind in helping me with my work and seeing that I had everything I
needed. His church had been hit several times and part of the sacristy had
been blown off; the parish was being shelled periodically. Mazingarbe
was the name of the town, but as there were two churches in it, within a
mile of each other, the parish in which I was billeted was namely Bully-
les-Mines.
Here I met for the first time, Father Madden, O. M. I.; chaplain to the
Second Brigade, and Father Lockary, chaplain to the First Brigade. They
gave me very good advice concerning the performance of my duties, for
both had been at the front for many months. Father Madden had been
there longer than Father Lockary, and he wore the little purple and white
ribbon of the Military Cross. I found my work very easy the following
Sunday.
On Monday morning, fully equipped with “steel lid,” trench boots, pack
on my back, I started for the trenches, where I remained till the end of
the week. We had a little trouble getting up to headquarters, for Fritz was
shelling them when we arrived; but we managed to make it between
shells. Headquarters was in the basement of what was once a hospital at
St. Pierre.
The first night in the line I slept in a cellar which had been roofed over.
On going from headquarters to this cellar I was accompanied by an
orderly; suddenly I heard a report like a pistol-shot, and then a hissing, as
of an extra large sky-rocket tearing its way up through the air. My
companion caught me by the arm and told me not to move. Then the
hissing object turned, burst into a brilliant light and began to descend
very slowly, lighting up the battle front for almost a mile. Then the light
went out and we went onward. “A Verey light,” said the Corporal. “‘Old
Fritz’ must be getting ‘windy’. He’s been shooting off a lot of Verey
lights on this front. Always stand perfectly still, Padre, when you see or
hear a Verey light.”
I had a companion in the cellar, the medical officer of the Thirteenth,
Captain Cochrane, who was a Catholic and an American. All the
wounded from the line were to pass through his hands. We did not have
very many wounded.
My first visit to the Front Line trench was made the second day of my
visit. I went with the orderly officer for the day, Lieutenant J. McIvor, M.
C., who was the only Catholic officer in the Sixteenth. The chalk
trenches were so similar, and so high, that I could not tell when I was in
the Front Line. Mr. McIvor had been looking at me for awhile, then he
whispered: “We’re in the Front Line now, Father. Old Fritz is just across
the way.” It seemed strange: above us shells, going and coming, passed,
making sometimes a soft, sweeping sound: at others, a shrill, whining
noise. Everything was intensely quiet in the trenches. We were so near
the German line that the occupants could be heard coughing, although I
did not have the unique experience of hearing them cough.
I stood up on the fire-step and peeped out over No Man’s Land. Not a
blade of grass could be seen, nothing but the grey earth, that had been
churned and riddled and tossed about by every missile of war. A little to
my left a long green spar like a flag-staff stood up in “No Man’s Land;”
a little beyond this, and behind Fritz’s line, was a partly demolished
town.
I saw all this in a second or two, then I felt a hand on my shoulder and a
whisper came to my ear: “Not too long, Father.”
I stepped down from the fire-step.
As we went back towards battalion headquarters, I asked the officer the
name of the town I had seen.
“Lens,” he said.
 Chapter LI
T O T W L
The winter passed quietly, each battalion of my brigade moving from
reserve to support, from support into the line, then back to reserve again.
And always in those little churches up near the line, whenever there was
a chaplain, confessions were heard from five o’clock every evening.
Here the work was most consoling, for my soldiers, moving about the
village in the evening time, used to find their way to the church and there
make a little visit or go to confession and Holy Communion. Often some
would stay a long time praying. They had left mothers and fathers, wives
and children, but the sanctuary lamp, burning softly, sent to them the
silent signal, as it did at home, that “the Lord was in His holy temple.”
Often as I sat in the confessional in those little churches of France I
thought of God’s wonderful ways; of the ineffable graces that flowed so
continuously to the souls of those lads. And many times, when the
evening’s work was done and the last soul shriven, I have left my
confessional and walked up the aisle to the altar-steps, and, kneeling
down, have thanked God with a full heart for having made me a priest.
On one of those evenings, after I had finished hearing confessions in the
church at Bully-les-Mines, I noticed an old soldier sitting in one of the
middle pews. He must have been nearly seventy; his hair was quite gray.
I waited in my confessional for a short time, thinking perhaps he might
wish to come, but as he did not, I stepped out from the box and began to
walk up and down the aisle; and the old soldier stayed on. At last I
stopped at his pew and asked him if he wished to go to confession.
He said “No,” and then went on to tell me that he had been to prayers the
night before, and that he had come back again thinking there would be
more prayers. But he repeated that he did not wish to go to confession.
I told him there would be the Way of the Cross the following evening,
which was Friday. The curé was having Lenten devotions twice a week. I
was just about to leave the church then, as there was no one else to go to
confession, when the old soldier spoke again.
“Father,” he said, “would you like to talk to me?” It seemed rather an
unusual way to ask the question. Usually men said: “Father, I’d like to
speak to you a minute.” However, if this man had anything he wished to
say to me, I was there to hear it and also to help him by any advice I
could. So I said that I would like to talk to him, if he wished.
I then sat down beside the old man and slowly he began to speak.
“Father,” he said, “I don’t want to go to confession—I haven’t been to
confession for forty years. I’ve led an awful life, Father. All that time I
have been trying to do without God. Lately, though, Father, I have begun
to think that I can’t do it. Since I’ve come to France I’ve seen a lot, and
I’ve been thinking a lot. I’ve come to the conclusion that there is some
power directing all things. For even to run a peanut stand there must be
some one behind it to direct things. I believe in God, Father—but I don’t
want to go to confession.”
He stopped speaking for a second or two, and we sat in silence. Up
before the tabernacle the little flame in the sanctuary lamp leaped a few
times. Then he spoke again:
“But, Father, I have led an awful life!” He began then and there to tell
me the history of his life. I listened quietly, and as he continued telling
me of forty years’ estrangement from God, I prayed with all my strength
to the Sacred Heart of Jesus for grace to bring this poor lost sheep back
into the fold. Surely the Sacred Heart would hear my prayer. “I will give
to priests,” He had said, “the power to touch the most hardened heart.”
For a long time I sat there and the old man continued to talk. Now and
again I would ask a question by way of encouraging him in his recital.
At last he finished, and his head moved a little from side to side, very
slowly, as he said: “Father, I’ve led an awful life!”
“Yes,” I said, “and now if you will come with me into the confessional
and ask God’s pardon from the bottom of your heart for all those sins, I
will give you holy absolution.”
It was late that evening when the old man stepped out from the
confessional, but before he did he said to me: “Father, if ever you wish to
make known all that has gone on this night, either by writing or word,
you have my permission to do so, for it might help some other poor
soul.”
All through his confession I had been praying for grace to know what to
do next. I wished to give him holy communion, for one never knew
when a missile of death might drop—just about that time a giant enemy
shell had crashed into the village so unexpectedly that I saw a red-faced
officer of the line turn a sickly white. And yet the old soldier had been
such a long time away from the sacraments. But before he left the
confessional I had decided what to do. “Now,” I said, “you will just go
up to the sanctuary rail and pray a little and then I will give you Holy
Communion.”
A few moments later I tip-toed softly out of the church and left the old
man happy with Jesus of Nazareth, the Saviour of the world.
Frequently, since I have come home, when I relate some of the
wonderful ways of the Master with these soldier lads people say to me:
“Ah, Father, they came back to the sacraments because they were
afraid.”
To me, who have witnessed these miracles of God’s grace, such words
always sound harsh, and I then try to explain to the people what these
men really went through. I describe the long vigil in the muddy front line
trench during the cold, silent hours of the night, when there was much
time to think. Perhaps for the first time in years some men began to do a
little serious thinking. Under ordinary circumstances, when the voice of
conscience speaks, one has a thousand ways of deafening the ears. In the
trenches there was no means of silencing the still, small voice. All things
conspired to make one think seriously of death and the fragility of human
life. It was these thoughts mostly that brought so many men back to God.
He spoke to them and they heard.
I remember once having explained this state of things to an old woman
who had said to me that the men came through fear. I had done my best
to convince her that the reason the men came was that they had grown
serious under hardship. She looked at me calmly and knowingly, and
said: “That’s it, Father! They were afraid!”
 Chapter LII
AV U
The spring was drawing near, and a certain vague feeling of unrest was
over the troops. Word was being passed about that old Fritz was
preparing for something. On our side there were no visible preparations
for a spring offensive.
And so the lads were restless. Very often, when the wind was favorable,
large enemy toy-balloons floated high over our lines, and as the long
piece of smouldering hemp attached to each balloon burned up to a
knotted cord, a package of propaganda articles was released and a great
flock of fluttering leaflets came slowly down through the air, falling at
last among the troops in the back areas. Usually these articles told of a
big offensive that was to begin and went on to say that as the Germans
had no hatred for the Canadians, and as they saw no reason for the
Canadians taking part in this war, they advised them not to take part in it
any longer. I remember one batch of leaflets gave us just seventy-two
hours to get out of the war. Although we laughed at such propaganda, we
were undeniably restless. For instance, we were especially watchful till
the seventy-two hours had passed. We knew Fritz was going to strike,
but we did not know when or where.
Just about the middle of March we moved out to Hersin, a little town
about three miles from Fosse-dix, to rest. I was billeted with the curé, a
most lovable man, to whose house was attached a large garden. There
were a few peach trees in the garden and they were already in bloom.
While at Hersin I was able to help the curé of Fosse-dix by going to one
of his adopted parishes, Bouvigny, about five miles from where I was
billeted. While taking breakfast with him, he showed me a small photo of
the interior of the church at Bouvigny after a recent bombardment. Half
the church seemed to be filled with broken beams and pillars, and
looking out from the debris, untouched in any way, was an almost life-
size statue of the Blessed Virgin. I was struck by the serene, calm
expression of Our Lady, but this seemingly miraculous preservation of
statues and crucifixes was a common occurrence on the Western Front.
Just before I left a number of airplanes hummed by overhead, and
casually I asked the curé if he had ever been up in an airplane. He
surprised me by saying he had, during some great public event at Paris.
When he had reached solid earth again after his flight, a society lady,
standing nearby, had said: “Now, my Father, you will know the way to
heaven!” He had replied, he said: “Yes, Madame, and whenever you
wish to know the way to heaven, I will be very pleased to teach you it.”
That was the last time I ever saw the little curé of Fosse-dix, for on
Thursday, March 21st, something happened and we were ordered back
suddenly to Mazingarbe. I remember the date very well for it was the
Feast of St. Benedict and my birthday.
The unrest was no longer vague.
 Chapter LIII
T G O
“Old Fritz” had struck at a vital part of the Allied front, planning nothing
less than a separation of the French and British armies. He was attacking
on a sixty-three mile front. He had “opened up” with a terrific
bombardment; it was no ordinary barrage, but one he had been preparing
for weeks. He had begun the bombardment at five o’clock, a. m., and
before noon had broken through the British line in many places.
For four or five days we waited in Mazingarbe; the whole First Canadian
Division was now standing to arms ready to go whenever they might be
needed. Every morning from four o’clock till nearly seven the Third
Brigade was “standing to” on the square, fully equipped for battle; for it
was always just before dawn that attacks were made. Fritz did not attack
on our front, but on Wednesday, the 27th, orders came for us to march.
I left Mazingarbe at about two o’clock for our assembly area, which was
Chateau de la Haie. I arrived there about four o’clock to find every
battalion of the Third Brigade quartered in the huts about the chateau. On
learning that we were going to be here till ten o’clock, p. m., I
immediately went around to all the orderly rooms and announced
confessions. There was a tiny house on the grounds that had once been a
private oratory; the stretcher-bearers were quartered here, but on hearing
that I wished to have the use of it, they very kindly gave it over to me for
four hours. I heard confessions here for the time allotted, then when it
was time for the occupiers of the hut to prepare for departing I stepped
outside, still wearing my purple stole, and stood under a tree, near which
were tethered horses. There was a long line of soldiers waiting. Each
man walked up, told his little story, received absolution as he stood there
under the stars, then passed on a few paces to say his penance, while the
next in line moved up. For a long time I stood there while soldiers, going
and coming, passed along the road near which the men were in line.
At midnight long lines of hooded motor lorries glided over smooth roads
from three different directions towards Acq. On coming to the point
where the roads crossed they came slowly to a stop; then thousands of
soldiers who had been sitting or standing along the roads began quickly
to “embus.”
We waited for almost an hour, till the last lorry had moved off, then I fell
in with the transport section. I could have gone in one of the lorries, but I
wished to go with the transport section as then I might be in a better
position to watch the movements of the whole brigade.
We went south, marching all through the night. It was a beautiful
moonlight night. We went up hill and down hill, and always before us
moved the long irregular line of the transport. There were vehicles of
almost every description—limbers, general service wagons, “mulligan
batteries,” the “pill cart,” (which was a two-wheeled affair with a red
cross painted on either side of the hood), mess cart, water cart, etc. We
passed through one silent moonlit village after another, sometimes
halting to rest awhile. Now and again an upstairs window opened
cautiously, and a night-capped head peeped over the window-sill at the
long line of the transport resting in the village street. Towards the dawn
we were passing through a beautiful countryside in which were many old
stone chateaux, built far back from the main road, with green fields
bordered by high trees before them.
For the past six or seven days we had not been having very much sleep,
and as daylight began to break I began to feel very weary; once or twice
while actually marching I fell asleep, only to be awakened by falling
against the man marching before me.
Often during the night, as we reached the crest of some hill, we could see
the yellow flashes of shrapnel as it burst in the air, and always we were
drawing nearer. But with the dawn we seemed to have drawn away from
the war area; for now there was neither sign nor sound of the enemy
guns. Whenever we stopped to rest, men would crawl into the ditches or
lie down near a hedge-row or an open field and go to sleep. Once in a
sunken road I noticed a number of cyclists sleeping; they were leaning
against the high banks which sloped upwards and away from the road.
There was just enough slope to the banks to see that they were not
standing. Their faces were almost black from the road dust. On two or
three bicycles were strapped large wicker baskets, and in each basket
hopped about two or three carrier pigeons. These were to be used in an
emergency.
In an open field a number of men from the transport sections were
preparing breakfast, their horses drawn up on the side of the road, busy
with their nose-bags, and the odor of frying bacon was wafted on the
morning air. We did not breakfast, as we had no rations with us. Two
general service wagons with rations for the whole battalion were to join
us farther on.
Once, on leaving a quaint little village grouped about a small, perhaps
century-old stone church, we caught a glimpse of a wide stretch of green
countryside. We had been ascending a hill for quite a distance before
coming to the village. The ground mists had cleared and the sun was out.
From different directions, but converging towards the same point, were a
number of white roads along which were moving or resting the long,
irregular lines of transport sections from many different battalions. Just
for an instant everything seemed to be changed. I thought I was back in
my own peaceful country and that I was looking at a wonderful
assembling of gipsy caravans. Up in the clear air a small bird soared
singing its blithe, carefree song. It was the first time I had ever heard a
lark. The joyous melody seemed but to emphasize the fantasy.
Then suddenly my dream vanished and I was back to France, sitting on
the roadside on the 28th day of March, 1918, tired, sleepy and hungry,
wondering at about what time we would meet the oncoming German
army!
When towards noon we entered a little town called Couturelle, word was
passed along the line that we were going to halt here. I had just finished
saying to George that I should not care to have to make the march over
again when I noticed the quartermaster of the Thirteenth Battalion come
galloping up the road, smiling and calling out: “We’ve come to the
wrong place.” He waved his crop to me as he passed, saying: “We have
to go back to the Arras area, Padre!”
I looked in wonder at George. We had left the Arras front last night
towards midnight. I had just said I should not care to make the march
over again. Now we were to do so!
We came to a halt in an open part of the village, and there we had lunch;
perhaps I should say breakfast. After the meal I went down to the little
church to make a visit. When I came back all the men were sleeping. I
then lay down in the ditch, put my haversack under my head, and
although it was the 28th of March I was soon sound asleep. In about two
hours we were awakened.
 Chapter LIV
A - -D
I did not walk back to the Arras front. I went in a lorry. As we drew near
our destination I was surprised to see so much traffic—but it was all
coming towards us. At every cross-road we were stopped by the traffic
police, just as one might be stopped in a large city. It was the first time I
had ever witnessed a retreat. Great stores were in Arras belonging to the
military and the British Expeditionary Force canteens. Most of these
stores were being removed, and the city of Arras, as well as the country
villages near it, was being evacuated.
Up to this time I had seen the effect of war on combatants only. Now I
was continually passing scenes that made me turn sick at heart; for all
along our way came little groups of French peasants—mostly old and
young women, and children, though now and again an old man was
passed. Sometimes a yoke of oxen, hitched to a large farm wagon, were
guided to the right of the road by a woman or young boy. And sometimes
an old woman led a cow or calf, while an old man pushed a large wheel-
barrow full of bedding. Once, while we stopped at a cross-road, I tried to
study the faces of those who passed. On no face did I see the marks of
any great strain or fear. All were attired in their Sunday garments. None
of the children cried or seemed hysterical. All had a good color, and their
large eyes looked solemnly about at the strange scenes surrounding
them; but not one of them hopped or jumped or smiled at us. The
expression in their faces was one that I noticed in those of the older
people. I can only describe it as one of stolidity. Here were these people
leaving homes where perhaps whole generations of them had lived,
going they knew not where, leaving behind them many things of value;
but they must sleep on the way and the nights were cold, therefore they
had all brought bedding along with them. For the first time since I had
enlisted I recalled a short and succinct definition of war given by General
Sherman. “General Sherman was right,” I said grimly.
Presently we came into a little village, at the entrance of which was a
large Calvary on the roadside, the great white figure drooping from the
cross in agony. Tomorrow would be His day. Perhaps it was the continual
passing of these wayside Calvarys that gave patience to the peasantry. I
was glad when the driver told me that this was our destination.
The lorry stopped before a large camp of Nissen huts. A gentle mist had
been falling for the last hour or two, but now it was developing into quite
a drizzle. I walked across the muddy square, then down a little lane
through rows of huts till I found my billet. In one part of the hut the rain
was leaking through the roof, but I did not mind this. There were no
berths, but we had our bed-rolls and all that was necessary was to roll
them out on the floor. I had been sleeping on floors now, from time to
time, for over a year and I cannot say that it ever inconvenienced me
very much. Just as I was leaving the hut to go to the church to make a
visit—for it was Holy Thursday—two Scotch Highlanders accosted me.
They wished to know to which battalion I belonged. When I told them,
they became very friendly and told me that they had just come from the
Front. Fritz had pushed them back a little that morning, but they had
been holding him since dinner-time. This was good news, and I hoped
that Fritz would continue to be held.
I had been praying before the lighted repository in the village church for
a few minutes when I heard footsteps coming, then I felt a hand touch
me on the shoulder, then a military chaplain walked by me into the
sacristy. I followed him. When he turned, I recognized him immediately.
It was Father Christopher Sheehan, an Irish chaplain whom I had met at
St. Michael’s Club, London, just about a year before. He had come to
London to receive the Military Cross from King George of England.
“Don’t you know me, Father?” he asked. I smiled and told him his name
and when and where I had met him; also what I was doing there and
when I had come. When I had finished his brown eyes lighted up
pleasantly, as with the enthusiasm of a boy he began to tell me that I was
“in luck.” For he was billeted at a convent school and had charge of all
the livestock on the premises. Then Father Sheehan went on to prove that
I was “in luck;” and as he enumerated all the articles he had at his
disposal, I quite agreed with him. The Sisters had left him bottles and
bottles of preserved pears, peaches, and strawberries, many different
kinds of vegetables and a large number of hares, etc. His eyes sparkled
with delight at the thought of being able to share his good things with
some one. He looked at his wrist-watch; it was nearly six o’clock.
“Dinner-time,” he said, “Father, come!”
I followed him up the road, thanking God that I had fallen in with this
warm-hearted Irish priest. On the way he told me that the lad with him
was an excellent cook. I think the way the good things disappeared that
evening was sufficient evidence of my appreciation of his culinary art.
Yes, gentle reader, it was Lent—but, then, you know it was war time!
Just as we had finished George came in; but he was scarcely in till he
found himself seated at the table that Father Sheehan and I had just
vacated, and presently the cook and George had set to work. They went
at it earnestly, carefully, and methodically, giving it all attention. The
cook had prepared an enormous quantity of potatoes; an ordinary
vegetable dish would have been too small to hold them all, so they were
piled high in a large white milk basin. Father Sheehan and I had
decreased the pile considerably, but now under the skillful treatment of
George and the cook the remainder disappeared with extraordinary
rapidity. It was good to watch the lads; they worked with such dispatch
and so whole-heartedly. It was a wonderful example of the adage, “What
you have to do, do it well,” and I felt loath to leave when Father Sheehan
asked me to come with him to one of the class-rooms.
 Chapter LV
T R
Father Sheehan, opening the door of the class-room, stood back for me to
enter. I did, and then fell back in surprise, for the little class-room was
almost filled with French civilians and piles of bedding. The seven or
eight little children looked wide-eyed at me, but they smiled brightly
when they saw Father Sheehan. The older people greeted me simply, as
is the way of the French peasant with the stranger.
They were refugees from Dainville and were stopping at the convent
over night. Tomorrow, Good Friday, they were to continue their
sorrowful journey. They were mostly women, though there was one old
man among them who did most of the talking. He seemed somewhat
apologetic as to his position. “Do you think,” he said to me, “that if it
were not for these women and children I would be here? I, sir, would
stay to meet the enemy. In 1870 I was a soldier in the army of France,
and I was a prisoner of war, but now I must look after these women and
children.”
I expressed my sympathy with the old soldier and asked him a few
questions about the Franco-Prussian war of 1870. When I had finished,
he looked at me keenly. “You, monsieur, you are an Englishman?”
“No,” I answered, “I am a Canadian, chaplain to the Canadian soldiers.”
The keen look in the old man’s eyes became more intense as they
searched my face. “Ah!” he said with a slow intake of breath. “Ah!” he
repeated. Then he stood erect. “The soldiers of Canada are good
soldiers,” he half-shouted.
As I bowed my appreciation of his praise, he turned and spoke to the
women, but his words were uttered so rapidly that I could not catch their
sense.
Presently he turned to me again, and there was a bright, hopeful look in
his eyes. “Are the Canadians going to remain here?” he asked. I said I
thought we were, for we had come to stop the German advance. I did not
add “if we are able,” for I wished to give him courage. “Ah!” the old
man said again.
The next morning as I came down to the convent to breakfast I met a
great number of refugees, only this time instead of leaving their homes
they were returning to them. Almost in the lead of the procession,
pushing a wheel-barrow stacked high with bedding came the old man
that I had talked with the previous evening. He greeted me warmly, as
did the women; the little children smiled.
“We are returning home,” the old man said. “I don’t think the enemy will
advance any farther now.”
As I left him and his companions and turned in towards the gates of the
convent, I felt a great gladness coming over me. Yesterday these poor
people were going out from their homes; but since then the Canadian
lads had come and now were lined up between the homes of these
French peasants and the enemy. These people knew the Canadian
soldiers, so they were going back to their homes.
I felt proud of my Canadian lads.
 Chapter LVI
A
That afternoon, accompanied by Father Sheehan, I went up to Arras to
visit my brigade, for most of the soldiers were billeted in the city. Arras
was being heavily shelled by the enemy. Long before we reached the
suburbs we could see the sudden spurts of black smoke rising in many
places from large buildings; and as we drew nearer we could hear the
dull, quick-echoing crash as shell after shell shrieked its way into the
great chalk buildings and exploded. Our own field artillery was busy on
the outskirts of the town, returning the German fire. A fine mist of rain
fell.
It is extremely hard to describe the strange, unfamiliar depression that
came over one entering the city; for everything was silent, save when a
shell shrieked horribly and then burst, while almost simultaneously came
the sound of falling stone and mortar and the tinkle of broken glass.
Nobody walked in the silent streets; and in the great empty dilapidated
buildings there was no movement, save now and then the flutter of torn
window-blind or soiled curtain in some empty window-frame. In one
part of the city blood was mingled with the rain water that ran slowly
along the gutter.
We came to the giant statue of Neptune, which faced us and divided our
street. We followed the street which ran to our left, passed the Monument
and presently were at the hospital of St. John, which was in charge of
some French nuns—I think they were of the Augustinian Order. They
had given over one large wing of their hospital to the Canadians, who
were using it as an advance dressing station.
There was a really beautiful chapel attached to this hospital, and there
was an English military chaplain quartered near it, who said Mass there
every morning. I arranged with him to have the use of the chapel on
Easter Sunday to say Mass for my lads, but when on Saturday I went to
Brigade Headquarters, which was in Arras, to announce the hours of
service I was told that there would be no church parades, as the shelling
was so continuous that no congregating of the men above ground would
be permitted. The battalions of the Third Brigade were scattered in
different billets throughout the city. I was very sorry I could not have the
men for Easter Sunday, but since it would have endangered their lives, I
recognized the wisdom of the order. Before I left the city that evening
there was not the slightest doubt in my mind but that the brigade officers
had acted with great prudence, for I was the only one on the long road
leading out of Arras, save occupants of an ambulance which came
screeching up the road, passing me with terrific speed. When its sound
had died away I became more than ever aware of the shells that dropped
so perilously near that I could hear the splinters falling on the cobbles
just behind me.
 Chapter LVII
E S
Since I could not have a parade of my men at Arras I decided to do what
good I could at Agnez-lez-Duisans. We had early Mass for the civil
population, and as their curé was serving in the army I acted as parish
priest that morning. Following my ordination to the priesthood I had
been sent, as assistant priest, to a parish where French only was spoken.
For three years I ministered to these people and when I had left them I
felt that I had a fair working knowledge of their language, though when I
first went among them, I received quite a shock. During my classical
course I had studied the French language for four years; my theological
course had been made at the Grand Seminary of Quebec, where the great
majority of the students were French-Canadians. I had left the Seminary
thinking that I had an adequate knowledge of the French language;
nevertheless, I took a whole week to prepare and memorize my first
French sermon in the little parish. I entered the pulpit a little fearful,
though when I found my words flowing with no great effort I warmed to
the work. I went down to the altar feeling that I had done fairly well; but
after Mass, while receiving a Mass offering from a gentle old lady who
had come into the sacristy leaning on a cane, I asked her very simply
how I had preached. I shall never forget the kindly look with which the
old lady regarded me, as she said: “It was all right, Father, all right! We
all knew what you were trying to say.” And I had been preparing for
eight years! However, when I left these good people I think they used to
know what I was saying. And this Easter morning, in far-away France, as
peasant after peasant came to me to confession, I recalled these golden
days of my early service for the Master when the first fervor of the
young priest was strongly aglow and all the world was at peace.
On Monday morning I took Holy Communion to an old woman who was
an invalid and could not come to the church. Everything was spotlessly
prepared and all the people knelt reverently when I entered the house
bearing the Divine Guest. I tried to tip-toe softly in my big heavy
military boots, but as they were built for marching on long roads I did
not succeed very well. It seemed very strange there in the soft, carpeted
room; two or three women knelt near the bedside; the feminine touch
was everywhere; for the first time since my enlistment I felt the lack of
cassock and surplice. Somehow, I felt a little awkward. She was an old
woman, and her life must have been a very holy one. Simply and with
great faith she received the Divine Guest and I knew Our Lord would
feel at home.
When I was leaving one of the women pressed into my hand a five-franc
piece. It was the first I had ever seen; but when I wished to return it, the
woman seemed determined that I should keep it. I did—as a souvenir.
 Chapter LVIII
T R C
On Wednesday morning while I was taking my breakfast in the mess of
the Sixteenth Battalion, George came in with a cup of tea and some good
news. All the battalions of the brigade were quartered in the Ronville
caves—over three thousand men underground. This was, indeed, good
news, for now I could do some work among the men, which I had been
longing to do.
The Ronville caves were just beyond the railway station, under the
outskirts of Arras. Nearly all the buildings of the city, including the
Cathedral of Arras, were built of chalk. This chalk had been quarried
from the depths of the earth, as near as possible to the city. When all the
chalk necessary had been excavated, lo! there remained the chalk caves
of Ronville—a series of caves at the end of short tunnels that branched
off from a great main tunnel miles in length.
After breakfast I went down to the convent and found Father Sheehan
seated in his dining-room. Yes, he knew well the situation of the
Ronville caves and would be only too pleased to accompany me to them.
In a few minutes we were on our way to Arras. We went through the city,
turned to our right just before we came to the railway station, passed
over the iron overhead bridge crossing the railway tracks, turned a little
to our left, and presently we were walking through a quadrangle, pitted
deeply with old and new shell-holes, towards the entrance of the caves.
We passed through the opening and almost immediately were in
complete darkness. We stumbled along for a little, I happening to be in
the lead, then suddenly a long shaft of light shot silently ahead of me,
illuminating the long white chalk corridor. Father Sheehan’s small flash-
light was at work. Then as we came around a curve in our road we heard
from far down in the corridor a muffled complaint; our light was shining
in the eyes of some poor oncomer; so immediately we were in darkness
again, though far down the corridor, seemingly attached to the wall, a
light as from a candle glimmered. We advanced slowly, Father Sheehan
flashing his lamp intermittently on the ground just ahead.
I visited all the battalions except the Thirteenth and had arranged to have
the men come to confession and Holy Communion the following day,
when we almost collided with two kilted officers in the Thirteenth
Battalion tartan. One was the chaplain of the battalion, then Captain
Graham, M. C., (afterwards Major Graham, M. C., D. S. O.) a
Presbyterian, a brave soldier and a thorough gentleman; the other was a
young Catholic officer who had but lately returned to his battalion after
having been wounded. They had been looking for me. Captain Graham
introduced the young officer, who was Captain E. Waud, and then left us.
Captain Waud began very gently yet firmly to take me to task; “You have
not been giving us an opportunity lately to go to confession, Father,” he
said.
I jumped interiorly, for this was the first time I had been accused of not
giving the men every opportunity of approaching the sacraments, but I
liked that young officer then and there.
“Well, captain,” I said, “no later than last Wednesday night I stood under
a tree in Chateau de la Haie waiting for all the soldiers who might come;
the Fourteenth and Sixteenth showed up well, but many of the Thirteenth
did not show up.”
“Oh,” he said, “we were at a concert that evening!”
“Well,” I returned, “I had announced confessions before supper, and if
the men missed the opportunity of going by attending a concert it was
not my fault. However,” I continued, “I have just announced confessions
for tomorrow at all the battalion orderly rooms, excepting the Thirteenth.
I am on my way there now.”
The young officer seemed very pleased, and promised to have all the
Catholic soldiers of his company in New Plymouth cave the following
morning at ten o’clock. “God bless you!” I said to him. “If all my
Catholic officers were as eager to come to confession, and bring their
men, as you are, my work would be made very much easier.”
 Chapter LIX
T B H
The following morning after breakfast Father Sheehan and I went down
on our bicycles to the parish church. Then each of us, wearing a white
stole over our uniform, went to the little tabernacle and after genuflecting
silently, took from it one small military ciborium full of consecrated
Hosts. Then silently we left the church bearing our precious burden.
When we entered Arras, which was now known as the “City of the
Dead,” we found, as usual, empty streets and the contour of many
sections of the city fast disappearing under the unceasing bombardment
of German guns.
We left our bicycles in care of the guard on the bridge near the entrance
to the Ronville caves and walked through the quadrangle, which
contained many more shell-holes than it did on our previous visit. For
this reason our passage was made very quickly. The long main tunnel
was much better lighted, however, lighted candles being attached at
intervals on either wall. We turned to our right and entered a subsidiary
tunnel, above the entrance of which was a sign-board bearing the names
of three or four different caves, New Plymouth was one to which the
tunnel led.
New Plymouth was wide and low, and although one of the smaller caves,
could very easily accommodate comfortably five or six hundred men. At
one end farthest from the entrance was what proved to be an excellent
altar table. The chalk had been quarried in such a manner that what
appeared to be a large chalk altar remained. Father Sheehan and I looked
at each other in some surprise; then placed our Sacred Burden on the
altar, covered the two ciboriums with a small white cloth we had
brought, and lighted two candles which we placed on either side—we
had brought our pockets filled with small pieces of candles from the
church. We then sat down on our steel helmets, placed on piles of chalk,
for already we could hear the sound of many voices coming along the
corridor. Presently a large crowd of men from the Fifteenth and Sixteenth
entered the dimly-lighted cave, removed their caps, genuflected before
the altar and then knelt in little groups on the hard chalk floor, silent in
prayer—for the Lord was in His holy temple!
Quickly the men came to confession, and every ten or fifteen minutes
either Father Sheehan or I stood up, went to the altar while some soldier
said the “Confiteor;” then as the little white cloth was passed from one
soldier to another they received with deep reverence their Lord. As each
little semi-circle of men received Holy Communion, they moved back
into the more darkened portion of the cave where they knelt to make
their thanksgiving.
We had been dispensing “the mysteries of God” for nearly an hour when
a large number from the Thirteenth came in and knelt down near me. Just
before them knelt their young captain. He had done as he had said; all his
Catholic lads were with him. For a long time they knelt there on the hard
chalk floor, and as now and again my eyes fell on the earnest faces of the
lads as they prayed reverently, my thoughts would go back to the early
ages of the church when the first Christians adored God in the
Catacombs of Rome.
In a little while I gave the young officer and his lads Holy Communion.
At the time there seemed to me to be some earnestness about the young
captain—as if this communion were a great and holy preparation for
some event that I knew nothing of. While he knelt back in the gloom,
silently returning thanks to God, I could not help associating him with
the knights of old. Then when he had finished his thanksgiving,
strengthened by the coming of the Lord, he left the cave at the head of
his men, ready, like a true knight, for whatever was to come.
All day we worked in the Banquet Hall; all day long, with the exception
of one or two short intervals, came the banqueters. At about half-past
twelve a soldier came quickly into the cave calling loudly, “R. C.
chaplain!” I stood up and went in the direction from which the voice had
come.
“Quick, sir!” said the soldier. “The M. O. of the Fourteenth says one of
your men is hit and for you to come quick.” Without delay I followed my
guide down the tunnel till we came to the medical aid post of the
Fourteenth. There, lying on a table with the doctor of the Fourteenth
Battalion working over him was one of the Catholic lads of the
Thirteenth bleeding in many places from a number of wounds. He had
stepped out from the cave for a minute and had been caught in the enemy
fire. “Is it long since you’ve been to confession, lad?” I said. He looked
at me through clear eyes, though he was in great pain. “Just about an
hour ago, Father,” he said. The doctor whispered in my ear, “He’s going,
Padre,” so I put on my stole and prepared the lad for death. I always
carried the Holy Oils in my pocket. Just as I finished anointing the dying
soldier one of his friends was admitted for a last word.
“What will I tell your people at home?” asked the friend, who was a
Protestant.
“Tell them—” he labored a little for breath—“tell them,” he repeated, “I
had the priest!”
Shortly afterwards he was taken by ambulance to the Field Ambulance at
Agnez-lez-Duisans, and the following morning he died.
I returned to New Plymouth cave and there I found Father Sheehan very
busy, for the Fourteenth Battalion was now coming. We heard them
quickly, however, as it was but a few days since they had come to
confession at Chateau de la Haie.
That evening, after the last man had left, Father Sheehan came over to
me. “Father,” he said, “wasn’t it a great day’s work?”
I could scarcely speak for the great joy I felt. There had been such
consolation throughout the whole day! Great things had been done for
our Divine Lord, who had waited all day long in the dimly-lighted cave,
giving His deep, sweet peace to the souls of these lads of “good will.”
Centuries before He had come to another cave, when “glad tidings” had
been announced to the shepherds.
“Yes, Father,” I said, “it was one of the happiest days of my life.”
Then, simultaneously, we thought of the things of earth. It was time to go
back to Agnez-lez-Duisans, for, with the exception of one slice of bread
and margarine between us, we had eaten nothing since early morning. It
was now evening.
The following morning while at breakfast a letter from headquarters was
given to me by the waiter. I opened it quickly: It read, “Capt. the Rev. R.
M. Crochetiere was killed in action April 2nd, near Bailleulmont.” This
place was just a little to the south of Arras. Not a year before he had sung
the great open-air Mass at Witley Camp when the Catholic soldiers had
been consecrated to the Sacred Heart. Just yesterday he had gone home
to the Sacred Heart to receive the reward of his stewardship. I sat back
from the breakfast table and wondered who would be next. Then I went
down to the convent.
Almost every morning I went down to the convent, for there was a lovely
garden there where I could walk up and down under the trees and read
my Breviary. Often as I passed through the court before the main
building, on my way to the garden, I paused before a beautiful statue of
the Sacred Heart of Jesus. The base of the statue was surrounded by a
wide circle of green lawn, bordering which was a fringe of forget-me-
nots, planted very likely by the good Sisters as a symbol of their
devotion to the Sacred Heart. Every morning the children whom the
Sisters taught before they went away came to the convent and asked a
young woman—a kind of lay-Sister who came daily to do some work
about the building—when the Sisters were coming back. “Very soon,
perhaps—tomorrow, perhaps.” And the little ones would stay through the
morning and play till they were tired; then they would sit on the low
benches and sing in their sweet childish voices the beautiful hymns that
the Sisters had taught them.
The presence of the sky-blue, yellow-centered forget-me-nots always
brought to my mind the love of the Sisters for the Sacred Heart; the
sound of the children’s voices in the morning always brought to my mind
the love of the children for the Sisters.
Just beyond the convent, on the other side of the Scarpe River, which
here was only about six feet wide, was a group of Nissen huts that had up
to a few weeks before been used as a Casualty Clearing Station, but at
the beginning of the German advance the patients and staff had been
removed. Now it was being used by a Field Ambulance for dressing
wounds or some emergency operation of casualties from the Arras front.
Father Whiteside, an English chaplain, was on duty here, though usually
he called me when any of my Canadian lads came in. Across the road
from the Field Ambulance was a large military cemetery where
regiments of weary soldiers rested softly, each under the shadow of a
little white cross.
It was the following Sunday afternoon that I had my first burials in this
cemetery. At two o’clock a procession of soldiers, mostly kilted laddies
from the Thirteenth, came slowly up the long aisle of the cemetery: in
the lead, following the pipe band that played the “Flowers of the Forest,”
walked nine groups of six men, each carrying shoulder high, one of their
late comrades who had answered bravely the last call. One was an
officer, the young knight who had passed his vigil in New Plymouth
cave. While leading his men out of the Ronville caves he had been
mortally wounded, passing away a few hours afterwards. Of the dead,
only Captain Waud and the young soldier from the Thirteenth whom I
had anointed in the cave, were Catholics.
And often as I passed through the court before the main building of the
convent and paused to look at the sweet forget-me-nots fringing the lawn
around the base of the statue of the Sacred Heart, I recalled the two who,
among others, had remembered their Creator, and I felt now they were
not forgotten: “Turn to Me and I will turn to thee,” had said the Lord.
 Chapter LX
T S
We waited at Agnez-lez-Duisans a few days longer, but “old Fritz” did
not strike on the Arras front, though all the world knows that he
continued to gain elsewhere. Two or three times during the week, Father
Sheehan went up to Arras with a quantity of provisions to two Poor
Clare Sisters who lived on in the basement of their ruined convent in
order to pay court to their King.
In the evening we were kept busy hearing confessions and giving Holy
Communion to soldiers in the parish church. One evening when we had
heard the confessions of all the men present, I stepped into the sacristy to
say a word to Father Sheehan, who was just going out to give Holy
Communion.
“Ah, Father!” he said in his gentle, friendly manner, “I am glad you
came in. Will you please go down there to Pat and tell him not to go to
Communion now. You see, Father, he was there this morning, and he’s
such a pious lad that when he sees the others going to the rails, he might
forget that he was there this morning and go up again.”
“All right, Father,” I said, but somehow or other I found great difficulty
in suppressing a strong inclination to smile as I walked down the flagged
aisle of the church. Pat—Father Sheehan had pointed him out to me—
who was intently reading his prayer-book, looked up kindly at me as I
drew near. “God bless you, Father,” he whispered, as I stooped over him
and he disposed himself elaborately to listen. It actually pained me to
keep from laughing as I prepared to deliver my message.
“Pat,” I said, “Father Sheehan sent me to tell you not to go to
Communion again. He is afraid that you might forget you were there this
morning and go back again.”
Pat just looked at his book and shook his head as he smiled indulgently.
Then he looked at me, still smiling, “Shure, Father dear, I had no
intention of going again!” Then he said, as if to himself, “God bless
Father Sheehan!”
Pat’s words were echoed strongly in my heart; for every one that met
Father Sheehan would feel like wishing him the very best they could,
and what is better than the blessing of God?
Just about this time I received from my mother a birthday present, which
had been delayed along the way. It was a large volume entitled “Canon
Sheehan of Doneraile,” by Father Heuser. I had long enjoyed the works
of the gentle Canon, and I had always felt that I owed a lot to this seer
and prophet. I had long wanted to read the life of one who had made
many such unerring prophesies as the following some twenty years
before the signing of the Armistice:
“Meanwhile, the new Paganism, called modern civilization, is working
out its own destruction and solving its own problems. There are
subterranean mutterings of a future upheaval that will change the map of
the world as effectually as did an irruption of Vandals or Visigoths. In the
self-degradation of women; in the angry disputes between Labor and
Capital; in the dreams of Socialists, and the sanguinary ambitions of
Nihilists; in the attitude of the great Powers to each other, snarling and
afraid to bite; in the irreverence and flippancy of the age manifested
towards the most sacred and solemn subjects, in the destructive attempts
of philosophers, in the elimination of the supernatural, in the
concentration of all human thought upon the fleeting concerns of this
life, and the covert, yet hardly concealed, denial of a life to come; in the
rage for wealth, in the almost insane dread of poverty—and all these evil
things permeating and penetrating into every class—there is visible to
the most ordinary mortal a disintegration of society that can only
eventuate in such ruin as have made Babylon and Nineveh almost
historical myths, and has made a proverb and by-word even of Imperial
Rome. Where is the remedy? Clearly, Christianity; and still more clearly
the only Christianity that is possible, and can bear the solvent influence
of the new civilization. Nothing but the poverty of Christ, manifested in
the self-abandonment of our religious communities; the awful purity of
Christ, continued in a celibate priesthood and the white sanctity of our
nuns; the self-denial and immolation of Christ, shown again wherever
the sacrificial instinct is manifested in our martyrs and missionaries; the
love of Christ, as exhibited in our charge of the orphaned, the
abandoned, the profligate, the diseased, the leprous and insane—can lead
back the vast masses of erring humanity to the condition not only of
stability, but of the fruition of perfect peace. For what is the great
political maxim of government but the greatest good to the greatest
number—in other words, the voluntary sacrifice of the individual for the
welfare of the Commonwealth? And where is that seen but in the ranks
of the obscure and hidden, the unknown and despised (unknown and
despised by themselves above all) members of the Catholic church.”
I took the book down to the convent to show it to Father Sheehan. To my
question if he had ever met Canon Sheehan, looking at me in that
quizzical half smiling way that one regards a questioner when the
information to be given far exceeds that asked, he said: “Yes, I have met
him. I knew him, and he was my cousin.”